Alex, Approximately
Page 12
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“But don’t you already have me pegged? You know all about me, Mr. Famous Surfer Boy?”
He mockingly strokes his chin in thought. “Hmm . . . well, Little Miss Vogue,” he says in that low, gravelly voice of his. The one I thought was all sexy and charming when he was giving us the tour. “Let me hazard a guess. You’re some stuck-up East Coast sophisticate whose daddy got her this job where she’s forced to have normal conversations with surf trash like me.” He crosses his arms and smiles defiantly at me. “How’d I do?”
My mouth falls open. I’m so stunned, I feel as though I’ve had the wind knocked out of my chest. I try to untangle his words, but there’s just so much there. If he’s really just giving me a hard time, then why do I sense . . . so much bitterness?
How did he know my dad helped get me this job? Did someone in the office tell him? I mean, it’s not like I’m some spoiled, incompetent rich kid with zero work experience and mega connections. My dad’s just a CPA! But I’m not going to bother explaining that or anything else. Because right now, I’m halfway convinced a hole in my skull has blown right off and my brains are flowing out like molten lava. I think I might well and truly hate Porter Roth.
“You know nothing about me or my family. And you’re a goddamn dickbag, you know that?” I say, so enraged that I don’t even care that a family of four is walking up to my window. I should have. And I should have noticed that I left the green switch turned on from the last pair of tickets I sold. But the family’s wide-eyed faces clue me in now.
They’ve heard every nasty word.
For one terrible moment, the booth spins around me. I apologize profusely, but the parents aren’t happy. At all. Why should they be? Oh God, is the wife wearing a crucifix pendant? What if these people are fundamentalists? Are these kids homeschooled? Did I just ruin them for life? Jesus fu—I mean, fiddlesticks. Are they going to ask to speak to Mr. Cavadini? Am I going to be fired? On my first day? What is my dad going to say?
If I was hot before, I’m not now. Icy dread sends an army of goose bumps over my skin. I point the scarred family to Grace’s window and bolt out of my stool, shoving past Porter as I race out of the booth.
I don’t even know where I’m going. I end up in the break room and then outside in the employee parking lot. For a second, I consider driving away on Baby, until I remember that I don’t even have my purse; it’s back in my locker.
I sit on the sidewalk. Cool down, get myself together. I have a thirty-minute break, after all, don’t I? Thirty whole minutes to wallow in embarrassment over saying what I said in front of that family . . . thirty minutes to wonder how in the world I allowed Porter to provoke me into yet another argument. Thirty minutes to freak out over being fired on my first day. Me! The Artful Dodger. How did this happen?
This is all Porter’s fault. He provoked me. Something about him just brings out the worst in me and makes me want to . . . lock horns. He thinks I’m a snob? He’s not the first. Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I’m aloof. Maybe I just want to be alone. Maybe I’m not good at conversation. We all can’t be cool and gregarious and Hey, bro, what up? like he apparently is. Some of us aren’t wired for that. That doesn’t make me snotty. And why does he keep talking about the way I dress, for the love of God? I’m more casual today than I was on orientation. So sue me if I have style. I’m not changing myself to please him.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but I eventually head back into the break room. A few employees are milling about. I wait a few minutes, but no one comes to get me. I expect to be called into Mr. Cavadini’s office, or at least for the shift supervisor to want to speak to me. When no one comes, I don’t know what to do. I’ve still got several hours left on my shift, so I head back to the lobby, scanning for signs of an inquisition on the march. I bump into someone. I look up and see Mr. Cavadini, clipboard smashed against his chest, and my pulse triples.
“So sorry,” I say, apologizing for what must be a record-breaking number of times in the last half hour. This is it. I’m done for. He’s come to ax me.
“Please watch where you’re going, Miss . . .” He pauses while his eyes dart toward my name tag. “Bailey.”
“I . . .” Can’t apologize again. I just can’t. “Yes, sir.”
“How’s ticketing working out for you? Are you on a break?” His nose wrinkles. “You aren’t quitting, are you?”
“No, sir.”
He relaxes. Straightens his Cavern Palace tie. “Terrific. Back to your post,” he says absently, focus returned to the clipboard as he shuffles away. “Don’t forget to smile.”
Like I could do that right now. I head to the ticketing booth in a daze, still unsure what I’ll find there. I take a deep breath and knock on the door. It swings open. Porter is gone. A small line is forming on the other side of the glass, and Grace is handling it alone. Her shoulders relax when she sees me. She quickly switches off her mic.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m not going to be fired?”
She stares at me like I’ve gone nuts then shakes her head. “Porter just apologized and let them in free of charge. People will forgive anything if you give them stuff for free. Don’t quit! It’s all good. And I need your help now, yeah?”
“Okay.”
I close the door behind me and sit on my stool, waving the next person in line over to my window. I’m not sure how I feel. Relieved? Wiped out? Still humiliated and angry at Porter? I don’t even know anymore.
Before I click on my mic, I look down and see a fresh bottle of water and three cookies sitting on a printed Cavern Palace napkin. One chocolate chip, one sugar, one oatmeal. A note in scraggly, boyish handwriting is inked on the napkin’s corner, along with a drawing of a sad face. It says: Sorry.
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@alex: I need cheering up.
@mink: Me too. Want to watch Gold Diggers of 1933?
@alex: Blues Brothers?
@mink: Dr. Strangelove?
@alex: Young Frankenstein?
@mink: Young Frankenstein.
@alex: You’re the best.
@mink: You’re not so bad yourself. Tell me when you’re ready to hit play.
“Sometimes you’re better off not knowing.”
—Jack Nicholson, Chinatown (1974)
6
I spend the next morning on the boardwalk. It’s going much the same as my first morning on the boardwalk, which is to say that it’s a bust. Despite zero signs of Alex, I’ve run into that stupid orange tabby again hanging around my favorite churro cart. I’ve now dubbed her Señor Don Gato (from my dad’s and my favorite children’s song, “Meow-meow-meow”). After all, she fooled me into thinking she was a “he” the first time around.
After pigging out and feeding churro crumbs to some bossy seagulls, I still have some time before I have to head over to the Cave for my afternoon shift. I’m not looking forward to facing Porter again. We didn’t see each other after the cookies. Yeah, that was a nice attempt at making up for his dickery, but whatever. Maybe don’t say anything you need to atone for in the first place.
Ugh. Just thinking about him makes me want to kick something. It also reminds me that I wanted to find a scarf to tie up my hair, so that it doesn’t stick to the back of my neck when the sweating starts in the Hotbox. I throw away my crumpled churro paper in the trash can, say good-bye to sleepy Señor Don Gato, and head to a shop I spied during my previous Alex sleuthing—Déjà Vu. It’s a small vintage clothing store with old mannequins in the window that have been pieced together from several different mannequin bodies—male, female, brown, pink, tall, small. When I go inside, a small bell over the door dings, a sound that’s barely audible over the congo drums of the 1950s exotica music thumping over the speakers. The shop is dark, and it smells of a mix of musty old clothes and cheap detergent. Everything is jammed in tight, a browser’s dream. There’s only one other shopper in the store, and a bored college-aged girl with purple dreadlocks is running the register in the back.
He mockingly strokes his chin in thought. “Hmm . . . well, Little Miss Vogue,” he says in that low, gravelly voice of his. The one I thought was all sexy and charming when he was giving us the tour. “Let me hazard a guess. You’re some stuck-up East Coast sophisticate whose daddy got her this job where she’s forced to have normal conversations with surf trash like me.” He crosses his arms and smiles defiantly at me. “How’d I do?”
My mouth falls open. I’m so stunned, I feel as though I’ve had the wind knocked out of my chest. I try to untangle his words, but there’s just so much there. If he’s really just giving me a hard time, then why do I sense . . . so much bitterness?
How did he know my dad helped get me this job? Did someone in the office tell him? I mean, it’s not like I’m some spoiled, incompetent rich kid with zero work experience and mega connections. My dad’s just a CPA! But I’m not going to bother explaining that or anything else. Because right now, I’m halfway convinced a hole in my skull has blown right off and my brains are flowing out like molten lava. I think I might well and truly hate Porter Roth.
“You know nothing about me or my family. And you’re a goddamn dickbag, you know that?” I say, so enraged that I don’t even care that a family of four is walking up to my window. I should have. And I should have noticed that I left the green switch turned on from the last pair of tickets I sold. But the family’s wide-eyed faces clue me in now.
They’ve heard every nasty word.
For one terrible moment, the booth spins around me. I apologize profusely, but the parents aren’t happy. At all. Why should they be? Oh God, is the wife wearing a crucifix pendant? What if these people are fundamentalists? Are these kids homeschooled? Did I just ruin them for life? Jesus fu—I mean, fiddlesticks. Are they going to ask to speak to Mr. Cavadini? Am I going to be fired? On my first day? What is my dad going to say?
If I was hot before, I’m not now. Icy dread sends an army of goose bumps over my skin. I point the scarred family to Grace’s window and bolt out of my stool, shoving past Porter as I race out of the booth.
I don’t even know where I’m going. I end up in the break room and then outside in the employee parking lot. For a second, I consider driving away on Baby, until I remember that I don’t even have my purse; it’s back in my locker.
I sit on the sidewalk. Cool down, get myself together. I have a thirty-minute break, after all, don’t I? Thirty whole minutes to wallow in embarrassment over saying what I said in front of that family . . . thirty minutes to wonder how in the world I allowed Porter to provoke me into yet another argument. Thirty minutes to freak out over being fired on my first day. Me! The Artful Dodger. How did this happen?
This is all Porter’s fault. He provoked me. Something about him just brings out the worst in me and makes me want to . . . lock horns. He thinks I’m a snob? He’s not the first. Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I’m aloof. Maybe I just want to be alone. Maybe I’m not good at conversation. We all can’t be cool and gregarious and Hey, bro, what up? like he apparently is. Some of us aren’t wired for that. That doesn’t make me snotty. And why does he keep talking about the way I dress, for the love of God? I’m more casual today than I was on orientation. So sue me if I have style. I’m not changing myself to please him.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but I eventually head back into the break room. A few employees are milling about. I wait a few minutes, but no one comes to get me. I expect to be called into Mr. Cavadini’s office, or at least for the shift supervisor to want to speak to me. When no one comes, I don’t know what to do. I’ve still got several hours left on my shift, so I head back to the lobby, scanning for signs of an inquisition on the march. I bump into someone. I look up and see Mr. Cavadini, clipboard smashed against his chest, and my pulse triples.
“So sorry,” I say, apologizing for what must be a record-breaking number of times in the last half hour. This is it. I’m done for. He’s come to ax me.
“Please watch where you’re going, Miss . . .” He pauses while his eyes dart toward my name tag. “Bailey.”
“I . . .” Can’t apologize again. I just can’t. “Yes, sir.”
“How’s ticketing working out for you? Are you on a break?” His nose wrinkles. “You aren’t quitting, are you?”
“No, sir.”
He relaxes. Straightens his Cavern Palace tie. “Terrific. Back to your post,” he says absently, focus returned to the clipboard as he shuffles away. “Don’t forget to smile.”
Like I could do that right now. I head to the ticketing booth in a daze, still unsure what I’ll find there. I take a deep breath and knock on the door. It swings open. Porter is gone. A small line is forming on the other side of the glass, and Grace is handling it alone. Her shoulders relax when she sees me. She quickly switches off her mic.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m not going to be fired?”
She stares at me like I’ve gone nuts then shakes her head. “Porter just apologized and let them in free of charge. People will forgive anything if you give them stuff for free. Don’t quit! It’s all good. And I need your help now, yeah?”
“Okay.”
I close the door behind me and sit on my stool, waving the next person in line over to my window. I’m not sure how I feel. Relieved? Wiped out? Still humiliated and angry at Porter? I don’t even know anymore.
Before I click on my mic, I look down and see a fresh bottle of water and three cookies sitting on a printed Cavern Palace napkin. One chocolate chip, one sugar, one oatmeal. A note in scraggly, boyish handwriting is inked on the napkin’s corner, along with a drawing of a sad face. It says: Sorry.
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@alex: I need cheering up.
@mink: Me too. Want to watch Gold Diggers of 1933?
@alex: Blues Brothers?
@mink: Dr. Strangelove?
@alex: Young Frankenstein?
@mink: Young Frankenstein.
@alex: You’re the best.
@mink: You’re not so bad yourself. Tell me when you’re ready to hit play.
“Sometimes you’re better off not knowing.”
—Jack Nicholson, Chinatown (1974)
6
I spend the next morning on the boardwalk. It’s going much the same as my first morning on the boardwalk, which is to say that it’s a bust. Despite zero signs of Alex, I’ve run into that stupid orange tabby again hanging around my favorite churro cart. I’ve now dubbed her Señor Don Gato (from my dad’s and my favorite children’s song, “Meow-meow-meow”). After all, she fooled me into thinking she was a “he” the first time around.
After pigging out and feeding churro crumbs to some bossy seagulls, I still have some time before I have to head over to the Cave for my afternoon shift. I’m not looking forward to facing Porter again. We didn’t see each other after the cookies. Yeah, that was a nice attempt at making up for his dickery, but whatever. Maybe don’t say anything you need to atone for in the first place.
Ugh. Just thinking about him makes me want to kick something. It also reminds me that I wanted to find a scarf to tie up my hair, so that it doesn’t stick to the back of my neck when the sweating starts in the Hotbox. I throw away my crumpled churro paper in the trash can, say good-bye to sleepy Señor Don Gato, and head to a shop I spied during my previous Alex sleuthing—Déjà Vu. It’s a small vintage clothing store with old mannequins in the window that have been pieced together from several different mannequin bodies—male, female, brown, pink, tall, small. When I go inside, a small bell over the door dings, a sound that’s barely audible over the congo drums of the 1950s exotica music thumping over the speakers. The shop is dark, and it smells of a mix of musty old clothes and cheap detergent. Everything is jammed in tight, a browser’s dream. There’s only one other shopper in the store, and a bored college-aged girl with purple dreadlocks is running the register in the back.
